Mourning John Smith
by C1ever C1ara
Summary: What if Clara was the Doctor? And the 11th Doctor was her companion John Smith? The aftermath of 'Face the Raven,' 'Heaven Sent,' and 'Hell Bent.'


**Title- Morning John Smith**

 **Author- C1ever C1ara**

 **Disclaimer- I haven't the ownership of any franchise ever possibly mentioned here. Maybe one day I'll be a director, or writer for Doctor Who, but even then I wouldn't own any of Doctor Who. So I'll keep dreaming.**

 **Authors Note- Hello! My name is Clara. Really. I do really mean this, my OTP's Whouffle and my name is Clara. But anywho, this is my first story so I'm really hoping you don't judge me too harshly. Love! Clara  
**

The Doctor dangled her feet over the edge of her TARDIS. It was the break of dawn and she was floating over the tall London skyline. It was a normally pretty sight, something people would pay quite a bit to see probably. And something that she would normally enjoy.

But sitting in there floating in the sky, all the Doctor could do was be sad. Because she was sad. Very very sad. Tragically, and beautifully, sad. About what? To be honest, she was sad about a lot of things actually. She was sad for poor poor Ashildr, the girl who'd lost what it meant to be human. Hopefully one day she'd stop being so bitter at the world and learn to be kind again. The Doctor looked forward to that day, the day when Ashildr was kind again, then she would know the Earth was in good hands.

Talking about planets, she was sad for her planet, the one she'd thought she'd destoryed, but turned out she didn't. Just froze it in time with all of the other incarnations of herself.

She was sad for the people she'd left at the end of the universe, maybe one day she'd go back to see them, but not anytime soon. She was having mixed feelings towards them, and they probably had mixed feelings towards her. She had, after all, cheated her birthright, despite what Ohila said, she hadn't been born into a nice family. Her family'd lived in the barren part of Gallifrey, right outside the Citadel, she'd just had friends who were born into nice families, and she'd just worked to get to the academy. She'd punched and kicked and used all the recourses she'd had. She had run away to the Citadel and dazzled the little boy Kosechi and his family, she'd made them think she was a genuis so that they'd help her get into the academy. And it had worked. Not that she was always happy she'd done so. Choices where different when she was younger. The repercussions didn't seem like they'd be so large, though later on she realised that they were large. She had just been to stupid to see them.

She was even sad because of what she looked like. She was sad about the fact that she no longer looked like her previous incarnation. Her eyes seemed cold, and she sounded mean and Scottish. Now her hair was bobbed and grey, not the glorious brown that John loves so very much.

Oh sorry. Loved. The brown hair that he loved. Past tense. She forgot for a second there. And that was the fourth thing The Doctor was sad about.

John Smith. The smiling bumbling man who was just a bit too much like her. Who loved the stars, physics, and little children. Who'd met her and ran away with her because it seemed fun and happy. And he died because of that. He'd died a horridly sad death because of their so called 'fun.' Yes, as Ashilder said, his death was beautiful. It was elegant, it was as perfect as a death could be, and it was something she would've done. However, it was sad. It was heartbreaking and tearjerkingly sad. And it felt wrong on top of it all, to see that joyful face scared and for once, lonely. To beg to be brave and to beg for his life. It was wrong.

All because John Smith was dead and she hadn't anytime to morn him. To honour him. To miss him. Was that fair? Really, was it fair to sweep her off her feet right after she'd just lost him? To force her into the torture chamber to reveal the truth from her, just after he'd gave himself up for her? To send her to Gallifrey and act like nothing was _wrong?_

No. Not at all. It was not fair. It was not fair and it would _never_ be fair. Ever. But sometimes, you've just had to mourn. Sometimes you just had to accept that sadness along with the beauty and move on. Except she didn't want to move on, she wanted to scream and shout and curse the world. She wanted to tear it limb from limb until she got him back. She would destroy all of time and space, if only he could live. Because John Smith was worth that to her. He'd made her life seem a little bit less sad after Rory and Amy's awful demise. And then he'd replaced them, he'd occupied theist hole and then expanded. For stars sake! He'd even jumped into her time line for her!

But there was no coming back, not from a chronolock at least. Or with out Missy's floating nano-cloud of human brains. No, John was gone. John was dead. John wasn't coming back. And she had no say in this. Yes, she had some vague memories from Gallifrey of trying to bring him back. But she wasn't even sure she tried. She wasn't sure if those were dreams or not. To her, there was nothing past his door of death.

The Doctor looked down from her box in the sky, all the way down to the river Thames. It was a long fall. If she fell she'd most definitely die, she'd die on impact, no time for regeneration. Not that she would jump, she wasn't that depressed. She hoped she wasn't that desperate. But she wasn't stupid. She was never stupid.

Often never stupid

Sort of never stupid.

Rarely never stupid.

At least when it came to things.

Tangible knowable things. Things that came with books and learning. Things that were learnt by being around the universe in a certain way.

Not when it came to things that were unseeable and unfeelable. John had always been better with that than her.

Oh. Why hadn't she seen it before? Maybe then she wouldn't be so sad. Maybe then there wouldn't be so many regrets. She could've said those three little words during her regeneration. But she hadn't then, and now she'd lost all chance to ever say them to him. Maybe he'd said that to her, maybe he'd told her the, during sometime in the past.

Maybe he'd told her in the Cloisters. She knew that they sat together in the Cloisters and he told her something very important, but she'd no idea why he'd said. Or what he looked like. Now that she'd thought about it. Or how he talked. Or laughed. There was nothing there. Just nothing. And that, just possibly, was the most tragic thing. Not that he was dead, but that she couldn't remember him. It was a blank slate where he was.

And while she'd told that funny looking, overly cheerful, waiter in that awful American dinner that she'd know him on sight, she knew that she wouldn't. Because he was right, for all she knew he could be anyone on the streets. He could be the homeless man on the corner. He could've been the waiter, and she'd never ever know, And that's what she hated, that she really wouldn't remember him.

No. The Doctor would never remember the face of the man she loved, John Smith, and that was what broke her hearts in the end.


End file.
